My New Year's Eve Tarantula

I looked at the ten or so patients strewn about the activities room. Different ages and shapes. Gowns. Sweats. Unkempt, though dignified. They each took three sheets of paper, as I had mutteringly directed. They each had a bunch of colored pencils-- I couldn't find the box of regular ones, and I was rushed-- feeling rushed. They looked at me expectantly. Again, it was time for me to run a group, and, again, I was unprepared.

This is how I roll.

Actually, I was slightly more prepared for this particular group than I usually am. See, while lying in bed the night before at approximately 3:40, unable to sleep, a spark came to me. I'd say it came to me in a dream, but you've got to be fucking asleep for things to come to you in a dream. So, it came to me in a dream-like state. It was so like a dream.

"Okay, so," I said, fudging for an enticing beginning, "New Year's is coming, and, if you think we're all going to sit around here and write out some bullshit resolutions that nobody in this room intends to keep, well, you're wrong." I was just about to say, "you're crazy," but you try not to say that sort of thing when you work in a mental hospital.

Instead of resolutions I had them write, on the top of their first page: "In 2011..." and then, underneath that, they wrote, "I hope".

After leaving some space, they wrote, "I will".

Then it was, "I want".

After that, we moved to, "I need".

We ended with, "I fear".

"Fear sounds negative," I said, "and we try our best to keep it light in here, but I'd be kidding you if I said that I didn't believe facing our fears was a good thing, a strong thing to do. Necessary, and frightening. Now, write."

And they did. In total peace and quiet. No disruptions. No outbursts. No chimpanzee imitations or sexually inappropriate remarks, no "Can we have the radio on?" or "Fuck this noise, yo." It's all about the mix of people you get in the room, and there's no way to control who sails into your group. You just roll with what you've got, cross your fingers, and hope that the fists don't fly.

Sometimes, when I'm running an art group or a creative writing group, I'll pitch in and sketch out something myself, but just as often, I don't. I sit, and sip my coffee, and walk around the room to make sure nobody's writing a psychotic, borderline missive to another patient, or to a staff member, I try to see if somebody's drawing me getting eyehole-fucked by a gigantic, radioactive tarantula.

You know, 'cuz it's all about me. And my gigantic, radioactive eyehole-fucking tarantula.

Well, since I didn't participate in this particular exercise with my patients, I guess it's my turn now. See you next year.

In 2011...

I HOPE

...that I will get better at my job. I am beginning to fall a little in love with it. My keys. My I. D. badge. My patients. My coworkers. The paperwork. The banter. The chairs in the chartroom. Seriously, I said the paperwork. The fruit in the cafeteria. The parking lot. The familiarity. Did I mention the patients? I never thought I would care so much about these people. And, because I do, I want to get better at what I do. I want to take continuing education classes and go to seminars-- not that anybody ever got better at their job by going to a seminar or taking a con. ed. class, but still-- I guess what I want is to just keep doing what I'm doing, so that I can do it better.

I WILL



...continue blogging (jump for joy now, please).

...see my nephew more.

...be a better husband.

...take more photographs. Jesus-- where has the last year of my life gone?

...do better at maintaining the few friendships that I have.

...pee sitting down more often. It's just easier for everybody.

I WANT

...to be a father. Oh, how I want that. How I want.

I NEED

...to iron my fucking shirts more often. Oh, wait-- this was supposed to be about material possessions I need. Right. Um... I don't know.... more wrinkle-free shirts?

I FEAR

Oh, God. Every. Fucking. Thing. Especially that motherfucking tarantula in my eyehole.

Happy New Year, my loves.

A New Year's Revolution

Well, shit.

Here we are. It's 2010. After a night of unforgettable and yet at least partially blacked-out revelry, you're desperately hungover, your mouth smells like a used Band-Aid and, after all the retching this morning, you look like Maggie Smith in ten years.

My wife and I performed an abbreviated version of "The Pirates of Penzance" as part of a small New Jersey town's New Year's celebration, twice, came home, got into our pajamas, watched Dick Clark fumble his way through Dick Clark's Slurrin' New Year's, and then stayed up until 1:00am watching a documentary about the 1974 kidnapping of Patty Hearst by the Symbionese Liberation Army.

And shared kisses and a Ginger Ale, because it looks like champagne.

One of my decidedly less lame neighbors is, right now, pouring a seemingly endless, clanking collection of alcoholic bottles into his recycling bin. And, though it's hard to see peering out of the blinds as I am, he kind of resembles Maggie Smith.

Since we're here together on New Year's Day, though I admittedly often attempt to eschew popular sentiment and the temptation to blog about what might be expected, I suppose I ought to elucidate a resolution or two, for your benefit and mine.

* I Resolve to Let Reality TV Eat My Brain

Why fight it? I used to bitch and moan about how superior scripted television was to reality TV but, really, it's not. Scripted television comedies and dramas and dramadies and dromedaries are so contrived and overrated, with their deliberate and predictable plot-twists and culturally-ascribed dry humor, their pandering and whoring to the latest pop sensation with a guitar whose hit single they use during the last three-and-a-half minutes of the show while a sensitive montage of every central character winding down his or her day inhabits the screen.

Give me some catty scowls on "Project Runway," people, and let Tim Gunn nibble gently on my cerebellum. I don't care anymore.

* I Resolve to Eat Less Pork

My wife is very tolerant of my various aberrant behaviors and compulsions, but, when I cook bacon in the house, she gets a migraine. Now, maybe that's just a vengeful, hurt and angry God expressing his disappointment with her mate's behavior, I don't know, but I will eat fewer piggie products in 2010, per capita. I mean, there's two chicken-and-apple "sausages" waiting for me downstairs, and those fuckers are good.

* I Resolve to Accept the Superiority of Blogging Friends Over Real Friends

Why fight it? It's 2010 and this is where friendship is. You guys don't give a shit if I don't call for seven months (or, um, ever), if I forget your birthday or your daughter's communion or whatever, you send me emails frequently and you listen to what I have to say, every day, whether it makes sense or has any value whatsoever. Plus, I never have to worry that I'm going to run into you at the supermarket and have to endure an awkward, four minute conversation about how we haven't spoken to each other since high school.

You people fucking rock. Keep it up.

* I Resolve to Somehow Associate Myself with Tiger Woods to Promote My Blog

Obviously, I can only do this in a couple ways. I think what I'm going to do is start sleeping with him (he won't be able to be so choosy anymore-- if he wants, though, I'll shove a rhinestone through my cheek-- he seems to like that sort of thing). Then, to cover my tracks, I'll have My Masonic Apron become one of his official sponsors. He can wear polo shirts with my angry, gnarled man avatar embroidered on them. Then, I'll leak the story that he and I are 9-ironing in the clubhouse bathroom, and then I'll pull my sponsorship.

Just like AT&T, Studebaker Motorcars of America and Hobart Kitchen Appliances, Inc.

* I Resolve to Shop for Food in Strange Outfits

A few nights ago, I witnessed two individuals parading through the aisles of our local Genuardi's wearing old lady dresses, combat boots, and ski masks. They were being followed, not too closely, by store employees who were probably later gunned down in a bloodbath in the Mexican foods aisle. I wouldn't know, I was just there for eggs and Zip-Loc bags and I got the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. But whatever they were doing, it looked like they were having fun. And I like fun. Besides, I haven't worn an old lady dress in public since I was fourteen.

* I Resolve to Stop Giving People the Finger Inside My Pockets

This one's pretty self-explanatory. What can I say? I have a lot of anger issues.

* I Resolve to Keep My Car Clean. Inside.

Right now, the interior of my car probably looks like the basements of most guests of the Maury Povitch show. And my eight-year-old PT Cruiser deserves better than that.

* I Resolve to Get a Real Advice Column

After almost a long time of penning responses to societal dregs on my Dear Apron column, I've decided that people need a good laugh more than they need actual advice. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but, Goddamnit, I'm going to get me an advice column somehow, somewhere. I don't care if I have to let Tiger Woods fuck me in the ass to achieve it, I'll do it. At least a few times.

And, finally, a serious one:

* I Resolve to Keep Blogging

Because nothing's better for the digestion, the skin, memory retention, hemoglobin production, homeostasis, photosynthesis, and performance on standardized tests than blogging.

Happy New Year, from My Masonic Apron. It's a New Year's Revolution.